


Into The Fray

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Hawke was left behind in the Fade. Fenris, Merrill and Anders will not let that stand. Together, they breach the Fade and go to rescue her.She carries a single map with her. The table is already covered in books, her books. Notes of her own making, loose parchment wedged between pages. Maps that make no sense to outsiders, marks that track roads unseen. She spreads this one over the others. Holding edges down with the other books, a candle. Leaning over it, pointing at a charted path. “I’ve found her,” Merrill says, following the line with her finger, “I know which eluvians to take.” Fenris stands beside her, his arms crossed.





	1. Part One: Bad Things to Good People

It takes his shape, wears his face. She has tried to speak to it, but she’s never been given a reply. She wonders if it’s because she doesn’t know what he would say. She knows what she would want him to say, but the words wouldn’t fit in his mouth, wouldn’t sound the same in his voice. It spares her this, those wanted sentences, and it’s why she can’t decide whether or not it’s a spirit, or a demon. He sits beside her, reaches out, and takes a lock of her hair between his fingers. Tilting his head thoughtfully as he looks at it, and she watches as his hair turns raven black. She wonders if perhaps this is what Leto would have looked like, had she ever met him. At that, the markings simply fade from his skin.

“Don’t do that,” she says, “he wouldn’t want that.” In an instant, the markings return. His hair goes white. They sit on the floor of her estate. She knows it isn’t real. Still, it’s comforting to be somewhere so familiar. She sits with his silence, and brushes her hand against his cheek. It’s Fenris today. It’s rarely been him before. It seems to favor Varric, and Carver. Perhaps because they were the last people she saw. She had told Varric to keep him safe, before she pushed Carver past the demon. She had gotten its attention, pulled her magic around it. As she killed it, she watched the rift disappear. A feeling she couldn’t describe, some emptiness at knowing she would never go home.

Her hand falls back to her lap. She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. There’s been no hunger, no want for anything. A place far removed from time, where seconds feel as though they are decades. Hours, in an instant. She wants nothing more than to crawl into his lap, to have him hold her as though he were real. As though she were home with him. “Please leave,” she says. He tilts his head at her words. “Go away!” Shouted, angry, surging forward, and shoving him back. Fenris, not Fenris, looks up at her with wide eyes from the floor. Frightened. Of her. She stands over him, hands clenched in fists.

“Hawke, it’s me,” and he sounds so much like him.

“No,” she says, her shoulders slumping, “it’s not.” He rises to his feet and takes her face in his hands.

“I would have followed you. I would have stayed here, with you,” he says.

“I know,” she says.

“How long have you been here? It has been an age and a day, Marian Hawke,” and the voice that comes out of Fenris’s mouth is not Fenris’s at all. Eyes cold and distant, studying her. “The world has moved on without you. There is no one coming for you. No ordinary mortal can leave the Fade. Say the word and I will cast you into sleep. No more games. No more visitations. No dreams. Just sleep.” He leans forward and presses his forehead against hers.

“I shall keep you safe,” and it’s his voice again. Spoken so softly, kindly, and she closes her eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

She carries a single map with her. The table is already covered in books, her books. Notes of her own making, loose parchment wedged between pages. Maps that make no sense to outsiders, marks that track roads unseen. She spreads this one over the others. Holding edges down with the other books, a candle. Leaning over it, pointing at a charted path. “I’ve found her,” Merrill says, following the line with her finger, “I know which eluvians to take.” Fenris stands beside her, his arms crossed.

“You’re certain,” he says. It’s not a question. Merrill presses her palm against the page as she affixes him with a determined gaze, her jaw clenched.

“I am. Without a doubt,” she says, putting a hand on his arm.

“Make ready, and get him. I will tell the others,” he says. Merrill gives his arm a squeeze before she whirls, leaves the way she came. It will not take her long to gather what she needs. Her house in the alienage is empty, all her things here, in the cellar of Hawke’s estate. A lengthy project. A worthy goal. She hurries down the stairs, grabs the staff by the wall. She pauses, and turns to it. Softly humming, gently whispering, the darkly glowing eluvian. Merrill stands before it, reaches out to it. It ripples at the closeness of her hand, although she does not touch it. It calls her forward. Merrill turns away from it, moves towards the hidden hatch.

Pulling it upwards with a single grunt, and dropping down into the Darktown tunnels. Her magic stains every part of this place. She has made it a labyrinth, an unbearable maze. They hide a lie here. A lie that had been published a thousand times over, believed by all those they tell it to. She follows the only safe route, the one she had carved out for herself. Biting her thumb, blood upon the door, and it opens at the taste of her. The world believes him dead. They know better. Anders looks up from his book. “Is it done?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she breathes. It seems as if it’s a great weight to close the book, to put it aside. Anders slowly rises from the chair. His hair is pulled back, his beard unkempt. He grabs the already made bag by his makeshift bed, the well-worn staff. He casts one last look around this place that has kept him safe, kept him hidden. He is glad to leave it all behind, walk the world once more. He follows at her back, up through that hatch. The eluvian has already been moved. They can hear voices upstairs.

Fenris isn’t with the others. He sits on their bed and opens the drawer of the nightstand. He takes the letter carefully, holds it in his hands. _Fenris_. He doesn’t need to open it to know what it says. _I don’t know how to tell you this_. He’s memorized every word. _She’s gone_. The ink is smudged, stained now. _Hawke’s gone_. Together, they had stood over an empty grave. Unsure of how to grieve, but needing the ceremony of it. It didn’t take much to convince the others. No one disagreed. Hawke would do the same for them, and so, they will do what needs to be done. For her sake.

He presses the letter against his chest, doubles over. Squeezing his eyes closed, and his shoulders trembled. If only he could tell her. He will not leave her. He will find her. He takes a shuddering inhale. Folding the letter carefully, putting it in his pocket. Standing up straight, rolling his shoulders. A deep exhale. He goes to meet the others, where they gather in the kitchen.

Aveline stands at the head of the table, leaning over it, knuckles against the wood, frowning at the map. Isabela has an elbow on Aveline’s shoulder, and she’s the only one who looks up when Fenris enters. Varric, is pacing as he rubs his face. He’s aged so many years in so few, his letter riddled with the guilt of bringing Hawke to the Inquisition. Fenris has forgiven him, but there is no way to convince him to forgive himself. Sebastian sits in a chair very near Aveline, listening to Merrill explain the route she means them to take. Anders stands in the corner, apart from the rest.

“We know that the Inquisition has people patrolling the eluvians now,” Aveline says, “as well as other, outside factions.” A glance shared between all of them. “The last thing we need is you all getting caught by one of them.”

“I’ve made a few discreet inquires with some old friends in the Inquisition,” Varric says, finally coming to a rest, his hand resting on the back of a chair. “They switch up the paths, but rarely. I don’t think any of them like the idea of being stuck in there. So they stick to their routes. I’ve shown Daisy where they’re going to be.”

“I’ve opened eluvians they don’t know about. We’ll be safe,” Merrill says, wearing a proud smile that she’s more than earned. Fenris half smiles at the sight of it, takes a seat beside Sebastian. Merrill has been his partner in this purpose for more than a few years. Her house in the alienage is empty because she’s been staying here, in the estate. They had never been quite close, but that’s changed, seeing the way she’d tasked herself to solving the puzzle for Hawke’s sake.

“Is there any chance of your tearing into the Fade being noticed? Corypheus was so intent on getting into the Fade. Are we presenting a path for others like him?” Sebastian asks.

“I’ll be able to break in through a broken eluvian here,” Merrill says, gesturing at a certain spot on the map, “Anders will ward it so no one else can get in. After we come back with Hawke, all we need to do is shatter the glass.” Sebastian casts an uneasy look in the corner.

“I don’t like his going with you,” he says.

“We need him. We don’t have a choice,” Fenris says. Anders says nothing in his own defense. Isabela runs a hand through her hair, drops her arm from Aveline. Swiftly, she rolls up the map, and hands it over to Merrill.

“We’ve talked about all of this before,” she says, “there’s no point in delaying it any longer.” Aveline sighs, crosses her arms. She looks between them all, rubs the space between her brows.

“You’re right.” Varric leads the pack into the main hall. There the eluvian sits in the middle of the room, still humming its soft song. Three bags, three weapons. Fenris sheathes his sword, shoulders the bag. Merrill squeezes her staff in her hands, while Anders holds his loosely.

“What should I tell Carver?” Varric asks.

“Tell him we’ve got Hawke back,” Isabela says.

“We don’t, yet,” Sebastian says, ever cautious. She gives him a light punch to the shoulder. Fenris looks towards the eluvian, and the light it casts on the stone floor. The reflection it gives is not of the estate, but of roads only Merrill has charted. All the rifts in Thedas sealed, and the Inquisitor’s anchor lost. This was their only chance.

“Tell him to come,” Fenris says. Slowly looking over towards Varric, “we either come back with her, or we do not. Either way, Carver should be here.” He had shown up to the estate, shortly after Fenris received his letter. Quietly, he had searched every room, as if he had to see for himself that she hadn’t somehow made her way back. Varric had done the same, after leaving the Inquisition. Hawke had done the impossible before. Not this time.

Isabela stands before Merrill, puts her hands on her face. Thumbs moving over the twisted lines of _vallaslin_ , and Merrill smiles up at her. “Come back soon, kitten,” she says, pressing a kiss to her forehead, to her lips.

Aveline stands by the entranceway, shield on her back and sword at her side. There are trusted guards posted outside the doors, Donnic among them. They would keep any intruders out. They would keep any unwanted guests from the eluvian from leaving. Varric takes his place beside her, picking up Bianca as he goes.

Anders turns his attention to the eluvian. The first touch is teasing, testing. He takes a deep breath, holds it as he walks through. Merrill’s hand slips from Isabela’s as she soon follows. “Be safe, my friend,” Sebastian says, putting a hand on Fenris’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze before he steps back. Fenris nods, and turns to the eluvian. Fingertips against glass like water, and it freezes through his veins. Lyrium lights as he steps through, markings flaring.

Merrill puts a hand on his arm, her magic swimming over his skin. It tempers the raw lyrium, its interaction with this realm. They knew this might happen. Steadying himself, and both he and Anders stand together as they stare outwards into the crossroads. Ruined castles, the likes of which he’s never seen before, hang in the sky. If it could truly be called the sky. Distant eluvians shine, framed by golden leaves, blood stained trees.

“The ward,” Merrill reminds Anders cheerfully. He turns to the eluvian immediately, raises his staff. Fenris instantly steps back. He can feel the magic rising from the very core of him, see it shimmering all around him. It prickles at his markings, little stabs of fire bent pain. The ward circles the very eluvian, and although the mirror seems to fight it at first, its humming soon stops, and goes dim. Any other might think it inactive.

Merrill doesn’t need the map, truthfully. This place is almost a second home for her now. Little markings on the stone steps, a colorful tie twisted around a branch. The markings she’s made, in her attempt to find Hawke. Pressing at the very barrier of the crossroads, searching for any sign of Hawke. She looks behind her, to see Fenris and Anders following her. They’re still looking around, over the edge, in wonder at this place. She doesn’t let it awe her anymore.  

Stairs upon winding stairs, and Merrill leads them over the broken wall of a ruin. Books and pages scattered on the stone floor, yellowed with age, molded with time. It is strangely silent in this place, an unnatural stillness. What might have been a fountain sits at its very center, along with a golden statue of antlers twisted toward the sky. Fenris reaches down, picks up a page. Words, written in a language he doesn’t recognize. He lets it fall from his hand. Following Merrill down another path, until they reach a corner. She throws out an arm and stops them in their tracks.

“They shouldn’t be here!” She hisses through clenched teeth. Fenris steps around her thrown arm to look around the corner. Qunari, in full battle regalia. “We need to make it through that eluvian.” Pointing to the shining mirror in the thick of them.

“Where will it take us?” Anders asks.

“Elsewhere in the crossroads,” she says.

“There’s a chance more Qunari will be there waiting for us,” Fenris says.

“We don’t have a choice,” she says as she steps forward. She wears a makeshift claw ring on her finger. Effortlessly, she scratches at her palm, brings forth a drop of blood. She raises her staff, and the air begins to thicken around her. Almost choking to be beside her, and Fenris draws his sword as he steps lightly in front of her. It doesn’t take them long to notice what’s coming.

“ _Basra! Vinek kathas!_ ” A call to arms. A call to capture. No doubt believing them to be agents of the Dread Wolf. They don’t make the time to explain their mistake. Fenris dashes forward, and vines follow at his feet. Twisting around the Qunari who rush forward to meet them, and Merrill holds them still for him to do his work. Arrows and spears bounce away from the barriers Anders keeps around them all. Together, the three of them make a straight line for the eluvian. 

His steps are lighter here. The lyrium inside him buoyed by the nearness of the Fade. He moves almost effortlessly, the sword barely a weight in his hands. Relishing in it, he flashes from one Sataari to the next. A cry as Merrill crushes one with a clench of her fist, the tightening of roots and vines. While Fenris moves to one side, Merrill stalks forward to the eluvian. Casting aside their foolish enchantments with a sweep of her hand, while Anders dispels their wards into nothingness.

Fenris pulls his sword from the corpse of one. Blood dripping off the metal, and he picks up a robe, wipes it clean but does not sheath it. No time to waste. Merrill steps through first. Anders next. A battle awaits Fenris on the other side. Another group of Qunari, caught off guard by their sudden appearance. A quicker skirmish. They race down steps that descend steeply, turn abruptly to the left. Another eluvian waiting, hidden behind a moth-eaten drapery. Walking over a narrow path, with only distant stones floating below them. Through the next.

Merrill holds a finger to her lips, guides them wordlessly to hide behind pillars. Elves, wearing the golden armor of Fen’Harel, talk cheerfully to one another as they pass. Fenris gives the signal that they’re gone. She looks out the way they went, turns back to the others. “They’re about to walk into an Inquisition patrol,” she tells them. They follow her down a hidden stairwell, where she pushes artifacts into a certain order. A pathway appears soon after. Voices shouting above them, and they race down, towards the next eluvian.

Under an archway, into a clearing. In one corner, the largest eluvian Fenris has seen yet. Completely dormant, dried blood circled around the bottom. Merrill is moving more artifacts, and the pathway they just walked vanishes into nothingness. “This is it,” she says as she stalks forward. Piercing her palm once again, pressing it against the glass. Looking over her shoulder, and she reaches out her other hand toward Fenris. He takes hold of her staff, and Anders puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Are you ready?” Merrill asks.

“Do it,” Fenris says, widening his stance, bracing himself. He can already feel Anders’s magic seeping inside of him, readying him for what is to come. With a deep breath, Merrill pulls. Not an easy thing to break the barrier between worlds. More power than any one of them possessed is needed. Together – Fenris grits his teeth as Merrill taps into his source of lyrium.

His vision burns white. Anders puts a steadying hand against his chest, but it does nothing to soothe the flood. Reaching into the heart of him, pulling the veins from his body. A gasp, crying out, raw and guttural, tearing at his throat. His legs tremble, threaten to fold. A knot of concentration between her brows, and Merrill presses harder at the glass. Beginning to crack, splinter, and she pours all she holds inside of it. All that flows from Fenris. He’s still screaming.

“Hurry!” Anders barks.

“I am hurrying!” Merrill snaps back. Anders can feel the pull in him as well. A chain, linking all three of them, sapping them for all their strength.

Glass breaks.

A sea of green light washes over them.

Pieces of the mirror float around them, and blackened water spills about their feet. The frame of it groans, makes known its displeasure at having been used so. Ripped from its original purpose, a doorway to a place that should not be. Fenris lets go of her staff as though burned, and the smoke rises from his body. Stepping back, and Anders follows him. “Are you alright?” His hand is still on his shoulder, magic wrapping around bone and blood, attempting to heal the hurt.

“Yes.” Eyes closed, shaking his head, trying to put all the pieces of himself back together. He has to be alright. This is only the first step. Fenris opens his eyes, straightens his back, and squares his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he says. Anders looks at him, recognition of the lie in his eyes, but nods nonetheless.

Merrill reaches out, meaning to touch one of the floating pieces. Shimmering, glinting in the sudden silence. Instead, her hand passes right through. A grim smile. She’s done it. All her years of charting the right path, and she’s opened a door just outside of where Hawke was left. “Come on,” she says, “Hawke’s waiting for us.” A deep breath, and she steps through.

“Sometimes I think she’s the bravest of all of us,” Anders says, low under his breath, before he follows her. Fenris stares at the corrupted eluvian. He can see the other two, shimmering on the other side. He hears it as well. The whispers that beckon him forth, in a different voice than all the other eluvians. He remembers well, the last time he experienced the waking Fade. He would not fall so easily this time.

A step forward, and another, plunging into the abyss and the Fade swallows him whole.


	2. And Deeper Still

It is of little wonder to Fenris that this place is oft called the land of the dead. If souls did wander, this place seems where they would go. The air itself is as lifeless as the ground underfoot, and it burns in his throat, acrid in his lungs. A strange and burning sensation, so in contrast to the prickling on his skin, as though he lies buried in snow. Stepping forward, tilting his gaze to what he thinks is upwards. An unnatural green sky, rocks in place of clouds. Merrill steps beside him, her mouth agape, holding her staff tightly.

She looks in so much amazement, eyes wide and studying. She’s walking past him, to reach out and touch a nearby rock. Rubbing her fingers together at the sensation, and moving to the candle that sits upon a broken table, half embedded in a cliff. Running her hands over the flame, a flickering blue thing, and as far as Fenris can tell, it’s only light with no warmth to be found. His fingers twitch, and he aches to be holding his sword in his grasp. There’s no reason, not yet, but he hears the shout behind him and his hand instantly raises to the hilt.

Turning to see Anders hunched over, bent in two on shaking legs, his hands pressed over his ears and fingers digging into his skull. Fenris races forward, hesitant to reach out and touch him, but Merrill holds no reservations. Putting her hands on his shoulder, trying to straighten him, bending over to look at him when she can’t. “Anders! What is it?” Sweat beads on his forehead, drops down his temple. Eyes squeezed closed and when he isn’t shouting, he’s grinding his teeth together, jaw clenched. Fenris steps back when he notices the back of his robes moving.

Bunching, gathering, as though the very spine of him seeks to escape. Instead, something else does. Fog, in the shape of a hand. Reaching upwards, and another. Bracing themselves on Anders’s ribs, pushing itself upwards. Anders staggers forward under the weight, and both Fenris and Merrill catch him. A body struggles to separate itself, a back layered over a back, covered in what must be armor. There’s something off about this fog. Parts of it are blue, almost clear, but others are darkened grey, malevolent. A helm emerges, and it is as though this other being weeps tears of ink.

Blackened and slick, it drops from under the helm, onto the chest plate, over shoulders. It drips down and fades in Anders’s clothes, and Justice steps forward. Anders collapses into Merrill’s waiting arms. Fenris draws his sword and faces the spirit that now stands in their mist. The corruption of it is evident. Justice spreads his arms wide, breathes in the Fade. Through thin slits, his eyes glow. “I am home, at last. Free,” he says, in that churning voice, raking flame over coal. Ink drops, sizzles on the ground.

Anders, breathing hard and heavy, pushes himself away from Merrill’s grasp. His hands briefly clench into fists before he dives for his fallen staff. “ _You_.” Spoken low, dangerously. “I’m finally free of your fucking voice in my head,” Anders shouts, and casts an accusatory finger. Fenris draws his sword, puts a hand on his chest, and holds him back. A pointed edge in the direction of the spirit, who makes no reaction to it.

“Such ingratitude, after all I have done for you,” Justice says.

“Done? For me? No. For you. All of it was for _fucking_ you. You made me lie to my friends. You turned me into someone else,” Anders says, pushing against Fenris’s hand. Merrill steps past them both, stands in front of Justice. Reaching out, her hand sifting through the fog of him, a finger dipping into the ink.

“You’re corrupted,” she says. Justice seems rankled at that, standing at full height, towering with fury. Merrill doesn’t move, even as he stares her down.

“Impossible. I _am_ Justice. Honorable. Moral. Unyielding,” he booms.

“You’re a demon,” Merrill says sweetly. His fog rolls black. Reaching for her, and gold glints in green light. A flick of the claw against her palm, and the roots burst from the ground. Wrapping around him and the helm is twisting, turning, dripping sizzling black ink.

“Wait,” Anders says, “what are you doing?” Justice is clawing at the roots. Shining gauntlets twisting into claws as he struggles in Merrill’s grasp. Fenris keeps Anders back, and although he makes a show of questioning it, he could have easily stepped around Fenris’s meagre defense. He doesn’t. He simply watches as roots bind themselves around the corrupted spirit, and drag him under cold, dead, rock. Merrill looks over her shoulder at them, that last drop of blood from her palm rolling down her finger. Roots twist and wither, turn to dust.

“I’ve sent him away, to another part of the Fade, in case he wanted to hurt us,” she says.

“Justice wasn’t a demon!” Anders shouts. Another hard press of his hand against his chest, and Fenris sheaths his sword. The fury in his face, the despair, and this is the most alive Fenris has seen him in years.

“Spirits are only spirits when they’re selfless,” Merrill says. “The moment he chose to possess a living host to extend his own life beyond the veil, he became selfish. His purpose was no longer clear, and that was that. I’m very sorry Anders.”

“I know how spirits and demons work!” Anders says. “I know. I know.” Rubbing his face with his hands, squeezing the space between his brows.

“He was your friend,” Fenris says. He knows what it is to love a dangerous thing. To long for its happiness, its affection, and not see the cost. Not until it’s too late. It’s in the dark circles under his eyes, the grey in his hair and unkempt beard. Loving for so long without reprieve, and receiving only pain in return.

“Yes,” he says, raw hurt in his voice. He puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry.” Anders turns and looks at him and for a moment – “please do not hug me,” Fenris says, stepping back. His eyebrows shoot sky high and Anders breaks into a startled laugh.

“I’ll hug you!” Merrill says, hopping forward, her arms extended wide. Anders shakes his head, denies her offer with a simple wave of his hand. Fenris is pleased to see him straighten his stance, roll his shoulders. A deep breath, and Anders lets out a sigh.

“I’m only sorry for delaying us with… this. We shouldn’t waste any more time. Let’s go get Hawke,” Anders says, and his gaze turns to him. The friend he knows he can save. A nod, and Fenris gives him one in return. They both look to Merrill.

“We’ve come out in the realm of the demon who holds her. We shouldn’t be far. The Fade _wants_ to do what we want, so just as long as we keep focused on finding Hawke then we will,” she says.

“How did you know that she was even alive in here?” Anders asks Fenris as they begin to walk, down the only path open to them. Merrill leads the way, sure and confident in her every step. Out of the corner of his eyes, Fenris can see the creatures that follow them. Drawn there by their very breath, and their shouting, no doubt. Eyes that blink over rock and stone, stare down at them from above. Shadowy figures that disappear the moment he turns his attention towards them. They are surrounded, that he knows. He doesn’t know why they don’t attack.

His gaze still upon a far off cliff, watching hands disappear from the edge, Fenris distantly answers. “I dreamed of her.” In a place very much like this, arms wrapped around herself. Armor discarded at her feet, staff in pieces. Hair drifting over her eyes, shivering with cold. Standing in front of him, and she had spoken. Words that sounded as though they were drowning in water, unintelligible, unknowable. All except for a single _please_ , and her, reaching out, wrapping a hand around his arm. He had woken in a sweat, and a bruise in the shape of her hand on his arm.

Merrill had woken to find him on her doorstep. They had moved the eluvian to the Hawke estate that night. It had always been some distant hope, that she was still alive. After all, how could someone survive in the Fade for that long? He knew, in his heart, that Hawke could. The dream was only confirmation of it. Only Merrill knew of his fevered speech that night, his desperate pleading, his great need to rescue her from the clutches of whatever held her. He promised once, he would never leave her side. He wouldn’t leave her to this.

Anders looks at him in disbelief. “That’s an awful lot of faith you’re putting into one dream,” he says. Fenris shakes his head.

“She is alive,” he says. A knot forming between his brows, but Anders doesn’t press the question any further. The moment they had approached him, he was willing. Of course he was. A chance to enter the Fade and maybe save Hawke while they were at it? Justice, that voice ever present, telling him that he _must_ do this. Pushing him and pushing him, and now to finally know why he was so insistent. All he was, after all those years, was a simple pack mule to deliver him here.

They reach a clearing, where a waterfall rains endlessly from nothing, into a dark pool that seems bottomless. Very near the shore, what is clearly an eluvian. They make their way carefully towards it. Merrill runs her hand along the edges of it, fingertips over gilded gold, curled flowers. Anders circles it, looks behind it. Fenris stands in front of it. It’s dusty, rusted over. He wipes his hand at the glass, and the eluvian sparks at his touch. Electricity that runs up his veins, and his markings instantly ignite at the feeling. He pulls back his hand as though burned.

“It shouldn’t be active,” Merrill murmurs, “how is it active?” The lyrium in him seems to have done something. An image flickers. More of the Fade, and his heart stops in his throat. He recognizes the armor strewn upon the ground. The figure in the distance turns, and her eyes widen at the sight of him. Walking towards him, on the other side of somewhere, and Fenris feels his very pulse drum against his bones.

“Marian.” He almost cries her name, and he reaches out his hand once again. Pushing against the glass, and it gives way to his whims. It’s the same as stepping through any other eluvian. He barely hears Merrill shouting. His arm is still outstretched towards her. _Hawke_.

“You’re late,” she says as she takes her hand in his. Pulling him forward, giving him a mischievous smile as she looks at him over his shoulder. “Mother would’ve been furious if you missed this.” A dress of the finest quality, ocean deep blues and swirling black and lined with gold. The staff in her other hand is much the same, ornately carved and deftly crafted. There are pearls around her neck, and in her hair. Red locks, pulled back neatly and beautifully. Varania gives his hand a small squeeze as she pulls him into the circle of people.

“Leto’s here,” she says, putting a hand on Mother’s back. She instantly steps away from her conversation to go to him, and her hands replace Varania’s. Long grey hair, braided about in a crown, earrings dangling from pointed ears. She looks up at him, her thumbs drifting over his knuckles, crows feet at her eyes, smiling lines around her mouth.

“Finally,” she says. It isn’t scolding. Far from it. He can see that Varania has taken her for a new dress. It suits her. No doubt he’ll be hearing from Varania later about how Mother had insisted she could have made one for herself.

“Sorry Mother,” he tells her, “it won’t happen again.” A chuckle under her breath, and she shakes her head.

“You and I both know that’s a lie.” A small wink. She reaches up, brushes back stray raven-black hair from his eyes. Patting his cheek and, “really, why you keep it this long is beyond me.”

“Marian likes it this way,” he says. Varania steals his hands back, to place a glass of champagne into it. With a nod of gratitude, they click their glasses together, take a sip at the same time. He doesn’t favor it quite as much as he does red wine, but it will do. Conversation mills all about them, and the band plays in the corner. Magisters and nobles of every caliber, packed into one gorgeous castle. Mother looks over the crowd, as if she could ever hope to spot only one among them. With Marian, she might be able to.

“Where is that wife of yours anyway?” She asks, turning back to him.

“No doubt persuading more Magisters to support our bill. That woman could talk a cow into becoming steak,” Varania says. Leto nearly chokes on his champagne. She isn’t wrong. Trouble incarnate, with a charisma to match. He looks over at the touch at his back, the arm that slips into his. Dark hair, like his, woven through with gold lace. Bright blue eyes, a slash of red about her lips.

“There you are!” Mother says, going to greet her. Marian greets her cheerfully, with a laugh and a smile, a kiss to both cheeks. She keeps her arm tight around Leto’s.

“I swear this crowd is going to swallow me up,” she says as she turns to look at Leto. For some reason, he feels as though he might cry from the sight of her.

He walks down the stairs, a hand on the railing. It’s far quieter than it should be. His steps echo in the hallways of the Circle. There’s dust on the shelves in the library. He takes a book in his hands, opens the cover. The pages are yellow with age, crinkle at his touch. Anders closes it, places it down on the table. He knows every carving, every bit of vandalism that’s worn into the wood. His name is here, under the second table. Where are the others?

He feels it creeping. The chill up his spine, spreading over him. Downwards ever still, another empty staircase. Beds are made, rooms impeccably kept. He pushes open the doors to the great hall. All of them, standing there in silence. Shoulders hunched, staring at the ground. They do not react to the sound of the doors opening, to his footsteps. They stand in the dark, and he can barely tell if they’re breathing. Moonlight flooding in from the windows, casting their shadows upon the floor, on each other.

He walks through them. Afraid to touch, not wanting to push, he makes himself small as he wanders through the crowd. They do not look up. They do not make a sound. Out of the corner of his eye, a face he recognizes. Moving to stand in front of her, Anders puts a hand on her shoulder. “Velanna? Can you hear me?” Her head slowly raises, her gaze meeting his.

“Anders,” she says flatly, “how may I help you?” No. No, no. no. Reaching upwards, parting bangs, and there it sits. Burned over _vallaslin_ , a sunburst brand. Stepping backwards, his hand over his mouth, and going to the next. Turning Merrill around, raising her head to look at him.

“Anders. How may I help you?” Again, another cursed star. The sign that all that was once her, is now gone. One after the other, after the other. Moving through the hall, and he finds her in the center. Shaking Hawke, and she looks at him dully. Moving that slip of hair, and the brands on her are botched, thrice burned. They pepper her forehead, as if one were not enough for her. His fingertips dig into her shoulders, his legs threatening to give.

“Anders,” she says, “how may I help you?” He half collapses against her, arms around her, head buried in the crook of her neck as he weeps. She doesn’t move. Neither to comfort him, or to push him away. In the silence, his cries echo. Against stone walls and unmoving figures. The Circle is no more than a mausoleum, a monument to house the living dead.

“Who did this to you? Who did this to you?” Repeating the question, over and over again, knowing the answer. The Templars would pay. They would all pay –

“You have done this.” He freezes in place. His breath chokes in his throat. Moving to look at her, his hands clasped on her shoulders once again.

“What did you say?” He asks it in a hoarse whisper.

“You did this to us,” she says. “After you caused the explosion at the Chantry, no one could trust a mage. They turned us in. Rounded us up. We could not fight back. There were too many of them, and no safe places. They made us all tranquil. There are no mages left. Except for you. Where were you Anders? Why didn’t you protect us?” She accuses him in a voice with no life. She presents it as fact.

“I tried,” he says, “I did it for us.”

“You failed,” she says. “You did not free us. You killed us all.”

She keeps her distance, ducks behind a tree as an arrow whizzes past her face. Merrill holds her staff to her breast, back against bark, and looks behind her. Pulling back as another arrow flies. She can hear her getting closer. Footsteps in the brush, breaking branches underneath her feet. She strides forward with purpose, and that purpose is Merrill. Tamlen follows after her, the bow in his hands, drawing another arrow from his quiver. They are hunting. Merrill is the prey. 

She breaks forward, turning the staff in her hands. Branches that twist, vines that grow, but it doesn’t stop Mahariel from moving ever forward. Turning the spear in her hands, shield in the other. Leaping over all that Merrill puts in her way, and Tamlen, ever close. “This isn’t very nice!” Merrill calls out to them.

“You let it taint us,” Mahariel tells her. Purple veins on Tamlen’s neck, discoloration in his face. “You let the Wardens take me.” She wears their armor, bears their insignia. The griffon emblazoned on her chest plate is twisted, malevolent. Not true to the real thing.

“What happened to them wasn’t my fault,” Merrill says, shaking her head. She knows exactly what this is. She throws up the barrier in time to catch the arrow, shatter it into pieces. Mahariel surges forward, and Merrill knocks the spear out of the way. Flames follow the path of her hand, send Mahariel darting back.

“For you, I wasn’t worth it. My death didn’t matter to you. You only fixed the eluvian for Hawke,” Tamlen says.

“What happened to it being for the good of our people?” Mahariel asks as she raises her shield, stops the lightning that Merrill casts her way. “You were meant to save us. To remember our history. To make us more than we were. Instead, you allowed yourself to be distracted. We weren’t enough.”

“Well, that isn’t right,” Merrill says as she moves on the offensive. A little bit of blood. “It’s not that simple. You can’t say anything to me that I haven’t thought of before. Really, you’re being quite unoriginal.” Leaning back as Mahariel strikes forward, and the spear nearly catches her. She calls forth the roots from the earth. No, not quite roots. Branches, spears of their own, strike up fast and quick. They catch Tamlen, piercing him completely, and he collapses into formless fog.

Mahariel skirts around them, shield out. Merrill takes a few quick steps back, feels the wind of it passing, watching as the tree very near her practically shatters. “I will die, surrounded by darkspawn. Abandoned by you, my people and the Wardens,” Mahariel tells her.

“No,” Merrill shakes her head, “you’ll die here, demon.” Such rage in this dream. The air around them cools, her breath visible in the air. Snow settling in her hair, on her skin, and Merrill makes her own arrows. Mahariel catches some of the ice with her shield. The rest of it slices through her throat, that twisted armor, again and again, until the demon roars, breaks, drowning flame into the dirt. It happens in a blink.

The forest is replaced by trees made of stone. The same green sky, no grass underneath her feet. An empty place, the looming Fade. Merrill whirls, and looks for the others. Fear has sunk its claws into Anders. Sloth wraps Fenris in its embrace.

A hand fisting into the back of his robes, and Merrill pulls Anders back. “Hello,” she says, rubbing at the brand on her forehead as though it’s a mere stain to be washed away. His eyes widen when it disappears. “You’ve just gotten out of the hold of one demon, it would be a shame to get another so soon.” At her words, the Tranquil snap to life. Hissing anger, halted steps, fingernails sharpened into claws. They advance forward, and Merrill spills forth flame. Anders’s eyes widen.

“It got me! It fucking got me!” He says, wagging a scolding figure at the demon disguised as Hawke. The laughter soon follows from his lips. Shaking his head, and his flames join hers.

Anders steps beside Leto, takes the drink from his hand. Downing it completely before the throwing the glass over his shoulder, pushing Varania away from him. “It’s time to wake up Fenris,” he says, “We have to save Hawke.” Marian, at his side, strides forward. Merrill catches her, wrenches her back. Struggling with her and Leto moves forward to take Marian from Merrill’s grasp.

“She said please,” Merrill says. Fenris stops instantly.

“She came to you because she needed you. Don’t let an illusion fool you,” Anders says.

Fenris steps back, moving from marble floor to faded clarity. Why is it so hard to breathe in this place? “It felt… real,” he says, looking at the other two. Stone hangs in the distance, the clouds that aren’t clouds. A worm like creature near his feet, and Anders casts it into dust.

“They always do,” Merrill says.

“Don’t feel too bad. She had to save me too,” Anders says, clapping a hand to his back.

“Where are we?” Fenris asks, turning as he looks around. Surrounded by tall cliffs, a patch of stone trees. Different from the low valleys and beaches of the Fade they had been wandering before.

“I think we need to go there,” Merrill says, pointing in a single direction. An archway, covered by a shimmering veil. What’s behind it is obscured, by the veil and by distance. Water seeps underneath it, pools in the runes carved before it. It doesn’t become any clearer even as they stand before it. Some ghostly wind shifts the veil slightly, and the water continues to poor. It’s Fenris who reaches forward, to that slip.

Pulling back the veil, looking to what’s behind it. A clearing, that leads to finely carved stone steps. Pillars that might have been made of marble, and an altar between them. A figure lies motionless on the altar. Another weeps over it. There’s armor scattered on the steps. A staff, splintered in pieces. Fenris steps through the veil. The weeping suddenly stops. It wears a veil of its own, and tears still fall through the fingers pressed against its face. Misshapen, unnatural hands, almost a mockery of what they should be. It wears a mourning dress, a hood pulled over its head.

Its arms drop to its side, and they see the pointed teeth inside its mouth. Through its veil made of lace, there are no eyes. Only tears. It floats forward, feet not touching the floor. “You were supposed to stay in your dreams,” it says. Fenris barely hears it speak. All he sees is that body on the altar.

Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	3. A Matter of Time

Fenris steps forward, and the demon stands at the very top of the stairs. It bars his way to her. He reaches up slowly, wraps his hand around the hilt of his sword. The demon holds a finger to its lips. “I would not do that, were I you,” it says. Its voice is hoarse, yet steady. It still weeps silent tears. From eyeless sockets, over lace and silk, pooling underneath it. Flowing down the stairs, circling everything in this place. Feet that float above stone, much like its hands – far too large, thin, stretched. He reaches for his sword, and the demon only cries harder.

“Strike me down, and you will have ruined her. I hold her in my heart. Kill me, and banish her dreams,” it says, fingers steepled. It grins, not enough of its own discolored skin to completely cover its mouth, its lips. Pointed teeth, blackened things. “By your hand, you would render my Hawke tranquil.”

“She is not yours,” Fenris tells it. Barely contained fury, and his grip tightens on the hilt.

“Our minds are one, Fenris,” it says with a tilt of its head, a renewed smile. “She is mine. I am yours.” He draws his sword in an instant, his markings aglow. Merrill puts a hand on his arm, although Anders, at his other side, has fire that licks around his balled fist.

“I – I don’t know how things work in the Fade. It could be telling the truth,” she says.

“I hold her dreams in me,” it says. It moves forward in blinks, flickers, flashes. Stuttering half movements, in and out of vision. A ghost, at the very edge of his sight. Standing before him, alighted blue by him and the reflection of his blade. Staring down at the three of them, the grin carved in its face. Pressing its hands together, and as it pulls them apart, a mirror appears between them. Tapping at the glass, the fog rolling in it, giving way to an image.

“She sleeps,” it says, “I keep her safe.” A dinner table, all the seats full. Leandra, Carver, Bethany, Malcolm. Fenris is startled to see himself, sitting next to Hawke. There is no sound that they can hear, but they can see the laughter, the conversation, how contented Hawke seems. “She sleeps.” The mirror is fading, pulled from view, and its fingertips tap together once again. “She does not want to wake.”

“Release her, and make a bargain with one of us,” Anders says.

“There is no bargain you can offer.” It points at Merrill. “One of you is taken.” It points at Anders. “One of you is poison.” It points at Fenris. “One of you is chained. She is the only one I want.”

“Then you should want to let us take her,” Fenris says, “isn’t every demons goal to be in the waking world?”

“Not mine. I have heard my Hawke calling to me for ages. Here, she has no more reason to despair,” it says.

“Then we will make you release her,” Fenris says. His sword, held steady in his hands, flashing upwards towards the demon. That blinking, flickering, and his sword touches nothing. Striking forwards once again, chasing after it, and Anders plants his staff into the ground. Swelling magic, strengthened by this place, a clear head, and it swallows Fenris up. Bursting warm, an almost unbreakable barrier. At least, so it seems.

It dives towards Fenris, slips around his blade, reaches for his heart. The barrier shatters at its touch. Only Merrill, her always faithful roots, wrapping around it and dragging it back. It flickers free, and jaw unhinging, it screams its sorrow at her. Fenris doesn’t give it a chance to scream for long. Heat against his cheek, Anders throwing a ball of fire. A flick of its wrist and it turns to liquid, freezes into ice. Fenris takes a running leap, meaning to bury his sword in its breast.

Instead, it flickers, and metal cracks into stone. Stuck in the cliff side, and the demon is moving towards him. “Weep,” it says, “for you have lost.” Merrill’s palm is bloody and raw, and somehow it still isn’t enough. Casting bolts from her staff, the vines that chase. Aware of her tricks, they freeze in place before they can reach it. Anders is trying much the same, diverting magic to slow its approach towards Fenris.

“Despair,” it says, “for you will not leave this place.” Reaching out towards him, the tears running down its cheeks. At the last moment, the blade breaks free, and he swings it wildly towards the demon. His markings flare, bright and painful, and he wraps his hand around its wrist. It screeches at this assault, moves to claw at his face. Letting it go as he moves out of its way, and his handprint remains: burning into its imitation of flesh.

Outrage, its attention shifts. Shifting, howling, it flickers towards Merrill. Breaking through branch after branch, vine after vine. Without looking, it pins Fenris down, sending sharpened icicle after icicle towards him. Anders is straining to keep a wall of ice from trapping him against the wall, but the others know he won’t be able to hold it from long. Separating them, keeping them from working together, and it moves to wrap a hand around Merrill’s throat.

It’s stopped by a sword.

Screeching as it lops off its hand with ease, and Despair goes flickering back, weeping towards the altar, crying over Hawke’s body. Justice points his sword towards it. “You will release this woman,” he says, and black ink drips from its helm.

“Betrayer,” it hisses, “deceiver.”

“No longer,” he says. The ice is melting, and without it in the way, Anders sees him. Looking at him wide-eyed, shoulders falling at the sight of him. Blackened slick on every part of him, barely any bit of Justice left. The corruption he can’t deny.

“I am Justice,” he says, “and you have taken this woman unjustly.” Merrill and Fenris exchange a look as he moves to stand beside her, place a steadying hand at her shoulder. He holds his own sword tight in his grasp. Hard enough to fight one. He doesn’t want to have to fight two.

“Can you banish them, like you did to Justice before?” Fenris whispers to her. She shakes her head.

“He was willing to go then,” she says. Anders slowly makes his way to stand beside them, and they behind Justice. Despair reaches out with its last hand, gently brushes away the stray wisps of hair that cross Hawke’s face.

“You will not take her from me!” It wails. The tears at their feet swell, as though all the Fade itself could not hold this demon’s sorrow. Justice casts aside his sword. It sizzles in the water, bubbles black and turns it all foul. Racing towards the demon, dragging it to the ground. They grapple with each other, but Justice is pulling it closer, pulling it _inside_ himself.

“No, no, no! I want to be with her! Let me stay with her! You cannot take her from me!” Desperate pleading, raw in its voice. Its claws are wrapped in Justice’s armor, trying to keep it from being swallowed, but the ink refuses to let it go, moving up Despair’s arm. Wrapping around it, until it disappears into nothing. Justice turns slowly back to them.

“I have her. You need only wake her from the dream. I can help you,” he says. Fenris raises his sword slightly. “Let me help you. This one last thing.” He isn’t looking at Fenris, or at Merrill. Only Anders. Long stretched out silence, and Anders finally nods.

“I can only send one of you to her,” Justice says. They all know who it will be. Fenris sheaths his sword. Walking past Justice, up the steps. Slowly, one by one, until he stands before the altar. His hands tremble as he reaches for her. A hand, brushing against her cheek, and she doesn’t stir at his touch. She’s curled up around herself, arms folded against her chest, knees pulled up tight. In naught but her tunic, leggings, and her skin is cold. She’s so cold. It seems as though she’s barely breathing.

Fenris feels it inside of him. A door stuck on itself, refusing to open. His breath caught, his heartbeat agonizing. He presses his forehead against hers. She’s _here_. “Please,” he says hoarsely, “send me to her.” Justice puts a hand on his back, the other at the crown of her head.

A child stands in a field of wheat, a stuffed toy in her hands. Sobbing loudly, watching as her village burns. Walking through the field, and Fenris recognizes this place by all that she’s told him. Lothering. The smoke is acrid, the air thick with the smell of burning wood. Darkspawn scream through the streets, and all the while, pay no attention to them. Fenris crouches down beside her. “Hawke,” he says. She holds the stuffed dog to her chest, wiping at the tears in her eyes.

“W-who are you? Where’s my mommy?” Her chin wobbles, and he would know her bright blue eyes anywhere. He holds out his hand to her, palm flat.

“I will help you look. We can go together,” he says. She’s slow to put her hand in his, so small in comparison.

“When will Lothering stop burning?” she asks. For her, he doubts it ever will.

“Soon,” he says. Picking her up into his arms, and she wraps her arms around his neck. Mouth against his shoulder, the toy bouncing against his back with each step. An arm underneath her, holding her up, the other flat against her back.

“Would you like to go home?” he asks.

“Lothering is home,” she says, pointing back at the burning buildings as he walks them further away, through the field, towards the road.

“Our home,” he says. “In Kirkwall. Your family has missed you. Varric has been writing you letters every day, although he believes the rest of us do not know. Aveline has taken on more guard rotations, comparing what she does for the city to what you have done for it.” Hawke is silently listening, and he isn’t sure she even understands.

“Isabela is far more restless now. I believe she only stays so long in one place because Merrill is there. Sebastian is angrier now, without your influence. Barks still searches the house each and every day, hoping you might be there,” he tells her.

“Carver has written to me a few times. He carries the same guilt Varric does. He survived, and you were left behind. At first, I believed he wrote to me out of obligation. I realized that he meant to ask for my forgiveness, but mine is not the same as yours. I have tried my best to hold them together,” he says.

Heavy, in his arms. Legs wrapped around his waist. Her hand at the nape of his neck, the other fisted against his back. Hawke is Hawke again, and he holds her tightly. Her fingers thread slowly through his hair as she breathes him in. “Fenris.”

Justice’s hand slips from his back, moves from her head. He steps back, and down the stairs. Walking slowly, until he stands in front of Anders. “For what I have done, I am sorry. I would ask of you one last favor,” he says.

“What is it?” Anders asks.

“Guide me into rest,” Justice says. 

“You’re asking me to kill you,” he says.

“I am.” Anders shakes his head, steps back slightly.

“No. That’s not fair.”

“I ask of you a difficult thing, but there is no one else I want to ask. I cannot be – this.” Looking at his hands, gauntlets stained black. Mold in every part of him, rot at the core. “It is not fair, no. Still, I ask it.” Merrill puts a hand on Anders’s shoulder, steps closer to him.

His knuckles are white around his staff. Raising a hand, pulling at the very core of him. He knows what this spell will do. It will destroy him into pieces. As it does, Justice smiles. “Thank you, my friend,” he says. Speckles of dust, ash and snow, and Anders puts out his hand. A piece dissolves against his palm.

“I’m sorry Anders,” Merrill says. Anders turns to her slowly, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.

“I’ll take that hug now,” he tells her. She smiles slightly, opens her arms to him. Taking him in completely, squeezing him tightly, and she does believe this is the first time they’ve ever hugged. At least, the first time Anders has ever hugged her back. As he does, she can feel his magic working through her, at all the little pains and aches, healing hurts she didn’t even realize she had. She smiles again, rubs his back in slow circles.

Fenris opens his eyes, and slowly lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Blinking once, twice, as he realizes where he once again stands. Looking down at her, and his hand is still at her cheek. Her eyes are closed. He watches her carefully, brushes a lock of hair behind her ears. “Hawke,” he says. His legs almost buckle with relief as he watches her eyes flutter open. Turning her head, looking towards him, and her eyes go wide.

Sitting up quickly, and a sob catches in her throat as she flings herself at him. Hands holding to whatever they can find, scrabbling at his back. Hugging him quickly, too briefly, and she leans back, cups his face in her hands. “Fenris,” she says, and oh to hear it. Here, in her voice. Surging forward, arms wrapped around her.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says, the tears rolling hot down his cheeks, “I thought I’d lost you.” Holding her close, arms trembling around her and for the first time in a very long time, Fenris feels like he can breathe again. Sitting on the altar, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he pulls her up into his arms. Cracked laughter as he holds her, spins them, puts her back down on her feet. She has a hand hooked in his breastplate, holding him close.

Looking at her, and she, at him. An arm still wrapped around her, flat against her back, while the other ghosts touch up and down her arm. “Marian,” he says softly, as nose touches against nose. A crushing kiss, and it’s the same as it’s always been. All consuming, ever overwhelming. Moving away from his chest plate, at his shoulder, his neck, threading through his hair, keeping him near. Salt in the kiss, the tears from both of them, and he can scarcely close his eyes. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight. She fills the broken places where his heart had been, and oh, to be whole.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” she says, and her touch refuses to settle. Needing to touch, to feel, to know him underneath her fingertips. “You came for me.” He takes her hands in his. She’s still cold. Raising them to his mouth, warming them with his breath. Rubbing them together, squeezing them tight.

“I will always come for you,” Fenris tells her. “I love you.” A kiss, quietly against him. Arms that wrap around him once again, and this time, a touch that finds its place, finds peace. He never wants to let go.

“I love you too,” she murmurs against his lips, “I love you so much.”

“Hi, sorry,” Merrill says as she steps forward, “this is lovely but we need to go. We just killed the demon who ruled this part of the Fade so other demons are coming to assert their dominance. Hello Hawke!” Behind her, down the steps, Anders waves. Fenris looks around, and he can see them behind the veil. Those faces, again, appearing over the cliffs, and this time, they’re coming towards them. Hawke tries to take a step forward and stumbles. Her body is only just coming back to itself. Fenris scoops her up into his arms, and races down the steps, Merrill beside them.

“I know the way to the eluvian,” Merrill says, taking her place in front of them. Anders takes his place behind, throwing fireballs over his shoulders at the ones who chase them. The veil that covered that place soon billows up in flame. Hawke has her arms wrapped tight around Fenris’s neck and looks over his shoulder. Stretching her arm out, palm flat, and Hawke’s always been good at force magic. What she does here, however, is something else altogether.

She pushes, and all that’s behind Anders moves. Demons flung backwards, stone and rock crumbling to pieces. “Andraste’s arse!” Anders swears as he looks over his shoulder. Hawke stares in wonder at her own hand. “I think the Fade – filled you up with magic,” he says. Her surprised look moves into a wide smile.

“Neat,” she says. Anders snorts laughter.

“Good to have you back,” he tells her. She smiles happily, her hand moving against Fenris’s back once again. Merrill is clearing the way ahead of them, sure steps with clear focus, goal in mind. Slowly, things become familiar. Ghostly candles in certain places, a broken table embedded in rock. Hawke is casually flicking away the demons in their way, keeping them at a distance.

“There!” Merrill shouts, pointing ahead. The eluvian, glowing brightly. Fenris holds Hawke tight to him as all four of them barrel through and stumble into each other. Merrill, stopped in her tracks, the four of them staring at a veritable horde of waiting Qunari. Anders turns back towards the eluvian, his fist shaking with effort, before a mirrored one of stone slams into it. It breaks, tips, tumbles out of the library and into the endless depths below.

Hawke is turning her attention to the Qunari, and with a shout, sends them flying backwards. A path. They take it. Merrill’s roots are covering the steps behind them, trying to keep the Qunari from following them. More, waiting for them ahead, and all three mages are doing their best to keep them at bay. Saarebas of their own in their horde, and lightning strikes over Fenris’s head. Shouting as they race after them, a warning to the ones ahead.

“What are they saying?” Anders calls out.

“You do not want to know,” Fenris tells him. Merrill is desperately moving statuettes, forming the path for them all. Carefully crossing, and Merrill is breaking the bridge behind them as they go. Ahead of them, Qunari await, and Hawke is leaning forward in Fenris’s arms. A sweep of her hand upwards. Shouts as Qunari suddenly find themselves in air. Her hand turns, and with shaking effort, slams back down. Shouts are silenced and they run past the Qunari she has flattened against the ground.

“On the hill.” Merrill points towards it, where three Saarebas press their hands against the eluvian. Anders smirks, his spell holding strong. At the sound of their approach, the Saarebas turn their attention towards them. Merrill strikes first. A veritable swarm of branches explode from the earth, spikes on every inch of them. The lightning forms between Hawke’s fingers, and as she makes the fist, they crackle down into the Qunari. Moving past their charred remains, and Anders is whispering under his breath as he dispels his magic.

Falling forward and barely any time to register where they are. Without hesitation, Merrill finds the nearest chair, and swings it bodily into the eluvian. Again, and again, smashing her life’s work to bits and pieces without hesitation. Glass shattering at their feet, and all four of them are breathing heavy, wheezing from running so far, using so much magic.

“Hawke?” The tray tips out of Varric’s hand, clatters to the ground. Fenris is sitting up, helping Hawke sit up as well. She rises unsteadily to her feet, only to fall into Varric’s arms. On her knees as she hugs him, laughing all the while.

“Varric, Maker, I’m so happy to see you,” she says. His hands tighten on her shoulders as he pushes her back to look at her properly.

“Fuck Birdie, I promised I wouldn’t cry,” he tells her, but he does anyway. “I shouldn’t have left you there. I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I shouldn’t –”

“Shh, no. None of what happened was your fault,” Hawke says. Aveline’s cheeks are red, her lips tight, and it almost seems as though she’s fit to burst. Marching over to where Hawke is, hands underneath her arms. Lifting her up, pulling her against her, and wordlessly squeezing her tight. The smile refuses to leave Sebastian’s lips as he leans Fenris’s sword against the wall, clapping Fenris on the back.

“You did it,” he says.

“Not without Merrill and Anders,” Fenris says. Isabela is flitting between all of them – squeezing Merrill’s cheeks, ruffling Anders’s hair, slapping a hand against Hawke’s ass.

“They said they were going to the Fade to find you. I didn’t believe it. The other Wardens were starting to call me Hawke but I couldn’t – I wouldn’t let them.” Carver’s hands are clenched into fists. Hawke puts her hands over his.

“I missed you, baby brother,” she says with a smile.

“Shut it,” he tells her.

“Right, right,” Isabela calls out to all of them, “group hug.” Dissolving into peals of laughter as they all huddle together, somehow all of them willing participants. Fenris finds himself next to Hawke. Grinning at each other, and he puts an arm around her waist, keeps her at his side.

It takes hours before all of them finally make their way home. Merrill has packed up her things, and Isabela has helped her carry them back to her home in the alienage. Unwilling to send Anders back to that hiding spot, Aveline offers to allow him to stay with her, until he finds his footing. Standing in her bathroom, he shaves his beard, cuts his hair. Carver takes up residence in his old room, while Varric tells Hawke where to find him. She always knew he’d make a good viscount. Sebastian’s left a good bottle of wine on the kitchen table, and there it stays, untouched.

For now, candles are lit low. The tub filled, warm to the touch. Fenris has his eyes closed, his head leaning against hers, his fingers playing absentmindedly with a strand of her hair. Her back against his chest, and Hawke is stretched out with his, a smile on her face. Content to sit in the silence, to be together. They dry each other off. Small bits of laughter as he pulls the towel over her head, rubs her hair dry. Fingers entwining with fingers, and they are never more than a couple paces apart.

Reassurance, in the way his hand brushes against her cheek. Warmth, in her palm against his. Leaning their weight against each other, the world finally having found its balance. Lying in bed, side by side, hand in hand, and she kisses his knuckles. Tonight will be a sleepless one. Instead, they speak in hushed tones. “I would’ve done the same for you,” Hawke says, “Nothing would’ve stopped me from finding you.”

“I know,” Fenris tells her, and he does, without a doubt.

“I thought I was never coming back,” she says. Her voice cracks, her eyes squeeze closed.

“I would not have allowed that.” He turns over slightly, reaches for the letter on the bedside table. Handing it to her, and he watches as she opens it. “It is the letter I received, telling me that you were in the Fade.” She looks over the parchment, at him. “I could not – I couldn’t bear it. Thinking that you were gone. You do not know how I – what I –”

“I know,” she says quietly as she puts the letter away, shifts closer to him. Forehead against forehead, eyes closing. “I know.” Listening to the soft sounds of her breathing, slowly pulling her into his embrace. His Hawke, with him, and he will not let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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